


A Life Less Lonely

by electricshoebox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1949709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair and Zevran fell into some kind of relationship both are reluctant to name after Alistair was crowned king, and even Zevran cannot keep away. Just a small window into this strange, exhilarating dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Less Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> This little bit came into my head after a conversation with my roommate, and I wanted to try and get it down. Many thanks to her for beta reading and polishing.

“And then there was a rather insistent request from Bann Grainne concerning a lingering issue with the farmland. I believe that he--”

Alistair sighed, sinking further behind his desk. The chair creaked every time he moved, and the seneschal’s eyes flicked up sharply from his stack of letters. Alistair tried to sit up straighter and pay attention to Bann What’s-His-Name’s troubles, but inevitably slouched down in the chair again.

“Your majesty? An answer?” the seneschal glared over the top of his papers.

Alistair cleared his throat. “Of course. We’ll… tend to that at once.”

One gray eyebrow quirked up impatiently. “Yes, your majesty.”

“Let us save the rest for the morning,” Alistair said, rising. The seneschal straightened immediately, and Alistair added, “It’s late, and the Banns will be just as angry at me tomorrow.”

The seneschal sighed, carefully arranging his papers and then giving a low bow. “As you wish, your majesty.”

He shuffled out of the study, murmuring disapprovingly to himself as he went. Alistair shook his head, nudging the chair out of the way with his foot before wandering into the hall.

Being king was not at all what he expected. He spent so much of his travels imagining leading an army to battle or keeping cities from revolting, and the weight of it all settled hard in his stomach like bad cheese. And of course, there was that, time to time, but the real life of the king was less… active. There were the hours of sitting and listening to nobles demanding money and land and time, then the hours more of listening to letters from more nobles demanding money and land and time. There were the servants scrambling to bow every time he passed them in the hall, ducking their heads and scampering out of sight behind him. There was ceremony and decorum and party after party. Alistair could never have imagined just how much he would miss the days of the Blight, when his concern was only killing darkspawn--perhaps not a simple task, but a clear one, and one he was good at. This? This was...strange. This was confusing. This was _boring_ , as childish and ungrateful and he knew it sounded. And more than that, it was lonely.

The Warden-Commander kept mostly to Amaranthine with Oghren and the rest of her wardens, furiously rebuilding. He heard little of her and saw less, though she did write on occasion to tell him of darkspawn raiding parties and forays in the Deep Roads. These letters he read over and over, trying not to feel so terribly jealous. Wynne wrote now and again, as well, telling him a little of her travels in Orlais and Tevinter with Shale at her side. But he heard nothing of Leliana, who disappeared shortly after his coronation, nor Sten, who returned to Par Vollen. There was no word of Morrigan, either, though that thought set his stomach turning for a wholly different reason. That left only Zevran.

Alistair came to a stop outside his chambers, leaning a hand against the door. Zevran. Oh, Zevran. What a strange quirk of fate was Zevran in his life.

Zevran was the only one who stayed near for a time. He helped with the darkspawn stragglers and training the recruits, and if Alistair wanted to admit it, helped keep the king from losing his mind. Zevran often stayed at the palace into the night, sharing wine and stories and then, one drunken night soon after the coronation, he shared Alistair’s bed.

They hadn’t planned it--at least, Alistair hadn’t. He didn’t even realize where his affections lay until he had his lips pressed to the elf’s and Zevran’s hands sliding beneath his shirt. Then it happened the next night. And the night after that. They never named it, this thing that grew between them, never saw the need. It just… was, or came to be, and it felt good and they wanted it, and…

And then Zevran had to leave, something with the Crows, something he explained carefully that Alistair could not hear over the roar of his heart. Zevran whispered promises, then, that Alistair knew enough not to hold onto, but that he clung to for weeks anyway. His heart very nearly stopped the night Zevran did reappear, lounging on Alistair’s bed when the King entered to retire for the night. Alistair kept him there for nearly two days.

It went on like this, going and coming, moving in and out of separate and together like some strange, nameless dance Alistair stumbled through without knowing the steps. He found himself craving Zevran’s visits so much that he filled the space between with the memory of him, talking to the air as if Zevran may leap over the window sill at any moment to answer. Still he refused to name this feeling between them, certain that the moment he did, Zevran may melt into the shadows for good.

Alistair shook himself from his thoughts and pushed the door open. His hand fell to a dagger hidden under his leathers, something Zevran insisted he carry, knowing the assassin’s way as well as he did. Alistair checked all the corners and curtains and Zevran had shown him, until he was satisfied he was alone.

“If I have to hear one more Bann complaint tonight, I shall run mad,” he groaned aloud. He dropped into a chair near the fire, plucking at the laces of his boots. “I could give them all the land in Thedas and they would still complain their shares were too small.”

He tossed his boots near the fire and leaned back. He imagined Zevran standing behind the chair, his hands moving around Alistair’s shoulders and he leaned to press a kiss to Alistair’s neck. Alistair shivered and mumbled to himself, “In fact, if I hear one more voice tonight that isn’t yours, I really shall run mad.”

“Mmm, and what do you wish me to say?”

Alistair started, leaping out of the chair. Zevran leaned against the bedpost, smirking at Alistair as he tried to straighten and wipe the look of surprise from his face.

“Say anything,” Alistair breathed, trying and failing to sound calm.

Zevran’s grin widened and he slid away from the bed. He crossed the room and ran his hands up Alistair’s sides as he said, “Tell me, do you always talk to yourself as if I am here?”

The question was gentle, intrigued, but Alistair reddened nonetheless.

“I knew you were here,” he sputtered.

Zevran’s smirk turned catlike as he leaned even closer, his fingers tracing Alistair’s collar. “You checked the whole of the room without once looking to the rafters.”

“I was just… putting on a show,” Alistair said.

“Mm-hmm,” Zevran purred as Alistair’s hands came to rest on his sides. “I can think of a much better show for you to put on, mi amor.”

Alistair chuckled, burying his nose in Zevran’s hair and whispering, “I missed you,” low enough that he wondered if Zevran would even hear.

Zevran stilled against him. For a moment, Alistair feared he said something wrong. He nearly pulled away, but Zevran’s grip tightened, and then his lips crashed against Alistair’s. Startled, Alistair took a moment to respond, but then melted into the kiss, letting Zevran’s sudden hunger drive them both.

Zevran’s hands flew to the ties of Alistair’s leathers, making quick work of the top and the tunic beneath. He nipped at Alistair’s lips as they fell away, his hands running greedily along Alistair’s abdomen. Alistair, meanwhile, fumbled with all the buckles and clasps of Zevran’s armor, managing to free Zevran’s belt before the elf kissed a trail down his neck and Alistair forgot his task altogether. Zevran chuckled against his collarbone and the spun them, pushing Alistair toward the bed until it hit the back of his knees. Then he stepped away, letting Alistair perch on the edge.

“Zevran, please,” Alistair rasped, reaching again for the buckles on the elf’s armor.

“Please what, my dear Alistair?”

“Maker, please, let me touch you. It’s been so long, I… need you,” he said, looking up into Zevran’s eyes.

Zevran stilled again, the smirk fading into something different, something warm, something Alistair had never seen cross his face before, something that set Alistair’s heart racing.

“Zevran?”

“Alistair… I…” Zevran swallowed, eyeing the man for a moment before shaking his head and lunging for him.

In the morning, he woke to find Zevran gone as quickly as he’d come. A pang of hurt struck Alistair’s chest until he noticed that laying neatly on top of Zevran’s pillow was a folded piece of paper and a small jeweled earring. Slowly, Alistair sat up, taking the earring and looking it over for a moment before reaching for the paper. He read it, drinking in each line as if Zevran himself were whispering them. When he finished, his eyes slipped close, a smile bursting across his lips as he held the earring to his chest.


End file.
